And Scaramello, despite being half Pete’s size, was even more feared.
Pete was mostly bald, with tufts of brown hair sticking out above his ears and trailing on around to the back of his head, which was somehow reminiscent of a stone block. The finger he poked painfully against Johnny’s chest was as thick and square and blunt on the end as a board.
“You hear me?” he said. “What you want here?”
“I need to talk to Nick,” Johnny replied.
“Talk to Nick?” Pete said. “A guy like you don’t just waltz in here and talk to Nick. You gotta arrange it with Ant’ony, you know that.”
Anthony Migliazzi was Nick Scaramello’s bookkeeper and general factotum. He and Pete handled day-to-day matters for their boss while Scaramello sat here in this restaurant, eating and drinking and pulling strings that ran from one end of Little Italy to the other.
Sometimes, though, things required Nick’s personal attention, and the problem Johnny faced now was one of them—at least, in Johnny’s opinion, it was.
“This is about the Lavery business,” he said.
“The Lavery business?” Pete’s voice boomed and his bushy eyebrows crawled up his forehead. “Well, why didn’t you say so? You can go right in!”
He moved aside and waved toward the curtain behind him.
Johnny started to step past him, but then Pete’s hand came down on his shoulder and clamped shut. Before Johnny fully understood what was happening, Pete flung him backward. He backstepped across the foyer, unable to stop himself, and slammed into the now-closed door. The back of his head thudded against the panel hard enough to make him see stars for a second.
“What’s wrong with you?” Pete yelled as he planted a hamlike hand against Johnny’s chest and pinned him to the door. “You got a problem, you talk to Ant’ony or me, you don’t come in here bold as brass and say you’ve gotta see the boss! You’re lucky I don’t take you out back in the alley and pound you until you got gravy runnin’ out your ears—”
“Pete. What are you bellowing like a bull about?”
The voice was quiet and carried not a hint of menace. But it made Pete drop his hand from Johnny’s chest and step back quickly.
“Uh, sorry, boss, if the racket was disturbin’ you. This little pissant thought he could just walk right in and bother you—”
Nick Scaramello pushed the curtain aside, stepped into the foyer, and faced Johnny with a curious look on his blandly handsome face.
CHAPTER 24
“Hello, Johnny,” Scaramello said. “I thought I gave you a job to do. You having a problem with it?”
Even a simple question like that was enough to chill the blood of most people in Little Italy. Nobody wanted to incur the wrath of Nick Scaramello.
“Not really a problem, Nick,” Johnny said.
Scaramello insisted that everybody call him by his given name. That was his way of furthering the self-created illusion of being one of the common people, instead of the boss of the dreaded Black Hand.
“I just need some advice, that’s all,” Johnny went on. Scaramello liked it when people acted like he was the favorite uncle of everyone in the neighborhood.
“It was a simple job,” Scaramello said, spreading his hands as if he couldn’t understand how Johnny would have any trouble carrying out his instructions. “Talk to Patrick Lavery and make sure he understands how things are going to be around here from now on.”
“Yes, sir, I know. I did talk to him.”
“And?”
“He won’t listen to reason,” Johnny replied with a rueful shake of his head. “He says he’s always had an arrangement and he expects it to be honored.”
“He had an arrangement.” Scaramello’s voice hardened. “Things have changed. I say what goes on around here now.”
Patrick Lavery was a hardheaded Irishman who operated a pawn shop a few blocks up Mulberry Street, one of the handful of businesses in the neighborhood owned by someone who wasn’t an Italian. He had been there for more than twenty years, running the place in a scrupulously honest fashion, making small payoffs to previous bosses so he could remain open without interference. That had started in the days of the Irish mobs and continued after the Italians moved in.
So far, since taking over fourteen months earlier, Nick Scaramello had maintained the arrangement with Lavery, but recently he had decided that the percentage the Irishman paid had to go up. Double, in fact. And the old mick hadn’t liked it.
Anybody could have predicted that. Johnny knew good and well that when he approached Lavery about the new terms, the man was going to balk. He had, in fact, grabbed a shillelagh and threatened to break Johnny’s head if he didn’t get out, all the while blustering about the “Eye-talians.”
Trying not to stammer out of nervousness, Johnny explained this to Scaramello, right there in the foyer of the restaurant that the boss used as his headquarters. Scaramello hooked his thumbs in his vest pockets and nodded as he listened. When Johnny was finished with his explanation, Scaramello asked, “So, what do you think is the next step?”
Johnny swallowed and said, “I thought maybe you could send some men with me when I go back there. You know, enough to show him that we mean business.”
“I see.” Scaramello turned his head to look at Pete and nodded again.
Pete took a quick step toward Johnny and hooked a heavy fist into his midsection. The punch hit like a thunderbolt. Johnny felt like it went all the way to his spine and blasted it in two. He doubled over, stunned by both the pain and the unexpected savagery of the attack, and would have fallen if Pete hadn’t clamped a hand around his throat, straightened him up, and slammed him back against the wall again.
The blow had driven all the air out of Johnny’s lungs, and with Pete’s fingers like iron bands closing off his windpipe, Johnny couldn’t inhale. His chest began to feel like it was on fire. His pulse hammered like drums inside his skull. A red haze closed in on his vision from both sides.
“That’s enough,” he heard Scaramello say. The man’s voice sounded like it came from a million miles away.
The terrible pressure on Johnny’s throat eased. It didn’t go away completely, but he was able to breathe again. He dragged air into his body. The frantic breaths rasped and wheezed in his throat, which Pete still squeezed, just not as tightly. He kept Johnny pinned against the wall and lifted him enough that Johnny was forced to stand on his toes.
Scaramello moved closer and said, “Listen to me, Johnny.” He still sounded friendly and avuncular. “If I give a man a job, it’s because I believe he’s capable enough to handle it. When you come back to me asking for help like this, it makes me doubt my own judgment, like you’re not as good a man as I thought you were. I don’t like doubting myself, Johnny. What do you think we can do to fix this problem?”
Pete eased off the pressure even more, so that Johnny could stand flat on his feet again even though he was still trapped against the wall. He croaked past the hand on his throat, “I . . . I can handle it . . . Nick. You’re . . . not wrong . . . about me. I’ll go back . . . to Lavery’s place . . . and talk to him again.”
Scaramello reached up and patted Johnny lightly on the cheek.
“Now, that’s what I like to hear. I know you won’t let me down.”
He nodded to Pete again, and this time the big man let go of Johnny. Johnny sagged forward and might have collapsed, but Pete’s hand on his shoulder steadied him. He stood there breathing deeply for several moments, then straightened and nodded to Pete.
Scaramello pushed the curtain aside and started to go back into the restaurant’s dining room. He paused to say, “Next time you come see me, Johnny, you bring me something I want to hear. You do that, I’ll have more jobs for you.”
“Yes, sir,” Johnny said. His throat hurt, but he got the words out. “I’ll do that, Nick.”
Scaramello nodded and let the curtain fall closed behind him. Johnny started to turn toward the street door, but Pete stopped him
by saying, “What Nick meant, kid, was that if you don’t have anything good to report . . . don’t come back. In fact, if he’s gonna be disappointed in you again, you’d be better off runnin’ as far and as fast as you can.” Pete leaned closer, his ugly face creasing in a mean grin as he added, “But that won’t be far enough to keep Nick from findin’ you. And when he does . . .”
Pete left the threat unfinished, but Johnny got the idea, loud and clear.
When he went back to see Old Man Lavery, his life would be on the line.
* * *
The saloons, the restaurants, and the gambling joints in Little Italy stayed open late, so there were people out and about on the streets until well after dark. Because of that, the possibility existed that somebody might need a little extra cash, so Lavery kept his pawn shop open late, too. The yellow light that spilled through its front window illuminated the shop’s sign and the three balls that were the hallmark of the pawn business.
Johnny stood a block away and stared at that blob of light. Part of him wanted to go ahead and get in there and get the job done, while another part wanted to turn and run away. Not just from the pawn shop, but from Little Italy in particular and New York City in general. Maybe it was time to try his luck elsewhere.
He had been scrambling for survival ever since he’d arrived here nearly a year and a half earlier. He had gotten out of Venice just a few steps ahead of Salvatore Tomasi’s goons, using what little money he had cached to get to Naples, where he’d signed on as a crew member on a tramp steamer bound for America.
That miserable voyage was quite a comedown for “Count” Giovanni Malatesta. He had done well for himself, these last few years, using his natural charms and his pose as a phony Sicilian aristocrat to fleece money primarily from American and English women. He lived in the style to which noblemen were accustomed, partially because it was good for business, partially because he enjoyed it. He had come a long, long way from herding his grandfather’s sheep around the Sicilian hills, and he was determined never to go back to a peasant’s life.
Then he had encountered Signorina Denise Nicole Jensen. Most of the women he targeted weren’t as attractive as she was. In fact, he would venture to say that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever been with.
Unfortunately, she was also the cleverest, and somehow she had discovered the truth at the worst of all possible times: right when Giovanni’s love of gambling and reckless impulses were catching up to him, in the form of Tomasi’s enforcers.
So his days as an aristocrat were over, although he remembered them fondly as he shoveled coal, deep in the steamer’s bowels, as a member of the vessel’s black gang. When he got to America, he would have to start over, but he told himself that he was capable of doing that. Just give him time, and he would be riding as high as ever.
He had jumped ship in New York, sought out familiar surroundings, and disappeared into the teeming warren of Little Italy. Since then he had survived hand to mouth, working at odd jobs and stealing when he had to. Then, after long months of such a precarious existence, he had been fortunate enough to start running numbers for a low-level employee of Nick Scaramello’s. He had worked his way up until he caught the attention of Scaramello himself, who had given him the task of dealing with Patrick Lavery.
Johnny understood now that the job had actually been a test—a test that he had failed miserably. But Scaramello had given him a second chance, and he didn’t intend to waste it.
He drew in a breath and walked quickly toward the pawn shop. As he came up to the window, he saw through the glass that a customer was just leaving. The man pushed out through the door, stuffing money into his pocket, the loan for whatever he had just hocked.
Lavery was alone in the shop now, as far as Johnny could tell.
He went in, closed the door behind him, thought about locking it but didn’t. Maybe Lavery would be reasonable this time, and everything would go quickly and smoothly. No fuss. That was the way Johnny liked it.
That didn’t appear to be what was going to happen, though. As soon as Lavery saw Johnny, he reached under the counter and brought out the shillelagh again, clutching the gnarled club in both hands. He lifted it slightly, as if daring Johnny to come within reach of a swing, and said harshly, “What’re ye doin’ back here, ya filthy Eye-talian? Go back to yer greasy boss and tell him I won’t pay him a nickel more! I’m done wi’ the likes o’ ye!”
CHAPTER 25
Johnny held up both hands, palms out, as he said, “Take it easy, Mr. Lavery. I’m not looking for trouble.”
“Then what are ye lookin’ for?” Lavery sneered. “A deal on some merchandise, maybe? Somethin’ ye can’t get yer thievin’ wop fingers on to steal?”
Johnny eased closer, still with his hands held out, as he said, “No, I just hoped we could talk some more—”
Lavery snarled and slashed the air in front of him with the shillelagh.
“There’s nothin’ to talk about,” he declared. “I always honored my deal with the old paisans. I’ll even honor it with that rat Scaramello. But not a nickel more! Not a penny!”
“Things change—”
“Not a man’s word!” Lavery slammed the club down on the counter to punctuate his exclamation.
Considering how red the old man’s face was, if he kept this up he might just die of apoplexy, Johnny thought. The man was thickly built, with a prominent gut, and even when he wasn’t upset, his face bore a resemblance to a slab of raw beef topped by curly gray hair that retained a hint of its original rust color.
Now he was breathing hard and his eyes bulged, and Johnny found himself hoping that the stubborn mick would just drop dead. That would certainly simplify things. Johnny didn’t know if Lavery had any heirs, but even if he did, Scaramello would be able to run them off without much trouble and the pawn shop would pass into Italian hands, which was only right and fitting.
“What’d you say yer name was?” Lavery demanded.
“Johnny Malatesta.”
“Look, Giovanni, you’re wastin’ yer time here. Run along afore I come out from behind this counter and teach ye the folly of annoyin’ a good Irishman.”
“My name’s Johnny,” he snapped. “I don’t go by Giovanni anymore. I’m an American now.”
For some reason, Lavery calling him by his given name bothered him more than the old man’s stubborn refusal to go along with Nick Scaramello’s demands. He was trying hard to fit in here.
“An American?” Lavery repeated. “Don’t make me laugh! You’re a greasy little wop, and you’ll never be anything except a greasy little wop. They barely tolerate the Irish in this country. What makes you think they’ll ever put up with the likes o’ you?”
“When I’m rich, they will,” Johnny shot back. “A rich man is always welcome anywhere.”
“Aye, ye might have somethin’ there. But how’ll ye ever get rich beggin’ for scraps at the heels o’ scum like Nick Scaramello?”
“I won’t always be doing that.”
“You’re not fit for anythin’ else, ye no-account Eye-talian mongrel—”
While they were talking, Johnny had edged closer and closer to the counter. Now he was right across from Lavery, so close that he was afraid some of the enraged spittle flying from the man’s mouth might strike him in the face.
Close enough that he was able to lunge across the counter and get both hands on the shillelagh.
Clearly, Lavery wasn’t expecting that, but he clung to the club and tried to pull back away from Johnny. Johnny hung on tightly, and they swayed back and forth above the counter as they struggled. Lavery’s lips drew back from his teeth in a grimace. Neither man said anything now. The only sounds in the pawn shop were grunts of effort and breath hissing through clenched teeth and shoes scraping on the floor.
Lavery had the better position, but Johnny was a lot younger. The Irishman’s grip weakened first. Johnny jerked the shillelagh loose. He turned it and rammed one end into Lavery’s stomach. The cl
ub sunk deep in the roll of fat around the man’s midsection. The force of the blow made Lavery gasp and bend forward over the counter.
Johnny stepped back to give himself some room and swung.
The club smacked sharply into the side of Lavery’s head above his left ear and knocked him sprawling behind the counter. Johnny glanced toward the pawn shop’s front window, worried that some passerby might have seen the fight and witnessed the possibly fatal blow he had just struck. He hadn’t meant to kill the Irishman, but Lavery’s venomous insults had gotten under his skin and he’d lost his temper.
Nobody was looking in, though, and a groan from behind the counter told Johnny that the old man wasn’t dead after all. He put his hands on the counter, vaulted up onto it, and swung his legs over. He dropped into the area behind the counter where Lavery was stretched out, pawing weakly at his head. Blood welled from a gash in his gray curls and turned them red again.
Johnny dropped both knees on Lavery’s chest and pinned the man to the floor. Lavery gasped in pain. Johnny put the shillelagh across Lavery’s throat and bore down on it. They were below the level of the counter, so if anybody looked in through the window now, they wouldn’t see anything out of the ordinary.
“It wouldn’t take much for me to crush your windpipe,” Johnny said in a low, angry voice. “Then you’d suffocate, and I could just sit here and watch you die while I laughed about it. But that wouldn’t put any money in Signor Scaramello’s pockets, would it?”
Lavery moved his hands like he was going to try to strike at Johnny, who responded by pressing down harder on the club. Lavery’s face started to turn purple.
Johnny leaned closer and said, “You think I won’t do it, old man? I’ll kill you right here and now, and there’s not a blasted thing you can do about it. Maybe I’ll just beat your brains out with this club of yours. How about that?”
Lavery gurgled and with fierce hate burning in his eyes stared up at Johnny. Lavery was weakening, though, from lack of air. It really wouldn’t take much effort to kill him now, Johnny realized, and the knowledge that this old man’s life was in his hands was a heady feeling, indeed.
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